Warm Bodies ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.
We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.
What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature
I don't want to hear music, I don't want the sunrise to be pink. The world is a liar. Its ugliness is overwhelming; the scraps of beauty make it worse.
I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.
She is everything. And if she is everything, maybe that's answer enough.